♡

You flung it open and immediately sighed, exasperated but not surprised.

There stood Dabi, your favorite fire hazard, looking like he'd just crawled out of a dumpster fire; shirt half-burned, face smudged in soot, one eyebrow singed off (again), and holding a crumpled fast food bag like it was a peace offering.

"I brought you fries," he said, grinning lopsidedly. "They're a little... uh, warm."

"They're charred, Dabi."

"Yeah, well, I walk with hellfire, babe."

You blinked. "You ran into a propane tank during a fight again, didn’t you?"

“…I plead the fifth.”

Your couch was already prepped. Dabi flopped onto it dramatically, sprawling like a sad, crispy noodle. You stood over him, hands glowing faintly, and tapped his forehead with your index finger. “Do you know how many people would kill to have a free on-call healer and still manage to look like this every three days?”

“Yeah, I’m special like that.”

“Specially stupid.”

“Ouch,” he said. “Wounded.”

“Indeed. Now stay still so I can change that”

You pressed your hands against his ribs, healing the burn on his side first, as you muttered to yourself.

“I told you to stop getting set on fire.”

“I am fire.”

“Then stop getting extra set on fire. And stop giving me such cringey replies”

He gave you a lazy grin, watching as your fingers moved carefully across his skin. You always healed him so gently. Like he wasn’t a walking Molotov cocktail. Like you weren’t constantly fixing what he broke.

“You know,” he said after a pause, “if I faked an injury, would you still patch me up?”

You gave him a flat look. “If you faked an injury, I’d patch up the floor after I knocked you through it.”

He merely snorted and let you continue, making a mental note to test that later. 

“Hey.” He poked your arm as you worked on the cut across his collarbone. “Why are you always so nice to me?”

You shrugged. “Because you're my favorite arsonist.”

“There are others?”

“There are surprisingly many.”

Dabi made a mock-offended sound. “Unbelievable. You cheating on me with some two-bit matchstick wannabe?”

“I would never,” you said, gasping dramatically. “You’re my one and only defective fireplace.”

He smirked. “Damn right I am.”

The healing ended with him dramatically flopping his arm over his forehead like some kind of Victorian maiden. “Ohhh... I’m all better, thanks to your tender, magical touch.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”

He peeked at you from beneath his arm. “You like it.”

You tried not to smile.

He definitely noticed.

When he finally sat up, dusting soot off your couch (rude), you noticed his hair was sticking up wildly on one side, as if he’d gotten into a fight with a hairdryer and lost. And so you reached up without thinking and gently tried to flatten it.

He blinked.

You froze.

“I- sorry. Habit.”

He didn’t move. Just looked at you, then said in that deadpan sarcastic tone “Okay that’s fine, but if you start braiding my hair or putting cute little clips in it, we’re gonna fight.”

“Oh no, you’ve discovered my plan.”

“…Wait, really?”

(Lmao imagine)

Later, when he was stretched out on your couch eating cookies you’d made earlier (you always had snacks ready for his post-‘crime scene’ recovery), he looked over at you.

“You know, you’re kind of a menace.”

“Me?!”

“Yeah. You’re out here being nice and sweet and putting yourself in danger by hanging around a guy like me.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile was fond. “You’re not dangerous to me, Dabi.”

He merely grinned, that cocky look making you roll your eyes for seemingly the millionth time that night as you sat beside him, curling your legs up under you, and resting your head on his shoulder. He tensed for a second, but then leaned into you, like he didn’t mean to, like he was totally used to it.

“…You’re lucky I like you,” you mumbled.

“Correction,” he said smugly, “you’re blessed to be in my smoky, charred presence.”

You elbowed him gently. “I’m considered ‘blessed’ when you keep showing up for my cookies and healing like it’s your day job?”

“Gotta keep the brand alive,” he replied, stealing another cookie.

Dabi never said thank you out loud, he never had a way with words, but he always left his dishes in the sink, carefully rinsed. Always placed the blanket you gave him (almost) neatly over the couch before leaving.

And once- just once- you found a small, soot-smeared sticky note on your fridge that read:

You’re an idiot for doing this. Don’t stop. I’ll probably be back tomorrow – D.

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